


More than our fathers' expectations

by MissCrazyWriter321



Category: Haven (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Canon-Compliant, F/M, Flirting, High School, Implied underage drinking, Making sandcastles is cooler than talking about feelings, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:40:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24498100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissCrazyWriter321/pseuds/MissCrazyWriter321
Summary: He watches her approach, but says nothing, just leans back on his hands and observes. There’s a hint of challenge in his eyes, mixed with amusement, as if he knows exactly what she’s doing out here.That makes one of them.
Relationships: Hannah Driscoll/Duke Crocker
Comments: 6
Kudos: 4





	More than our fathers' expectations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mythoughtsaretroubled](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mythoughtsaretroubled/gifts).



> Yes, this is kind of an out-of-left-field pairing. I couldn't help myself. I was just too fascinated with the potential.

He watches her approach, but says nothing, just leans back on his hands and observes. There’s a hint of challenge in his eyes, mixed with amusement, as if he knows exactly what she’s doing out here.

That makes one of them. 

She waves, taking a step closer, and he actually laughs. Waves back, a bit mockingly. He pats the sand beside him, offering her the spot, but it’s clear that he expects her to back down. Most likely, she  _ should  _ back down; she’s not naive enough to think that the cooler next to him holds sodas, and her father is already furious with her. Sneaking out- _ again _ -is bad enough, but sneaking out to see Duke Crocker is probably unforgivable. 

With probably a little more force than necessary, she drops down on the ground beside him.

His brows shoot up to his hairline, but just as quickly, he relaxes. “Well, well, well, Miss Driscoll,” he teases, offering her a half-nod. “Didn’t expect the pleasure of your company this evening. Drink?” 

He’s already reaching for the cooler when she finds her voice.

“No, thank you.” 

“Right.” His expression tightens, and he pulls out a single bottle. “Preacher’s daughter. Of course not.” He seems  _ disappointed,  _ ridiculously, as if that was a test and she didn’t even come close to passing. 

Even more ridiculous is the answering tug in  _ her;  _ for some reason, she doesn’t want to disappoint him.

“It’s not that,” she blurts before she can stop herself. He pauses, drink halfway to his mouth, and cuts his gaze toward her. No backing down now, she thinks, and wills her voice to stay even. “It’s not… The preacher’s daughter saying no. It’s the alcoholic’s daughter.”

She doesn’t even know why she says it, not really. There’s no reason to, and frankly, it’s none of his business why she doesn’t want to drink. Besides, if word gets out-if her father’s reputation is ruined because of one slip of the tongue- 

He exhales, heavily, and lowers the bottle. “Fair enough.” Setting it aside, he turns, shifting all of his weight onto one hand so he can face her. “You’d think I would’ve learned from watching my old man, but… Here we are.” 

“Here we are,” she echoes quietly. 

It’s strange; logically, she knows about Simon Crocker. The whole town talks about him, after all. Phrases like  _ ‘deadbeat,’  _ and  _ ‘selfish,’  _ and even  _ ‘evil’  _ fill the air whenever he comes up in conversation, while her father and his friends refer to Simon as a hero, but she’s never really thought about what that meant for Duke. 

Never realized how much he might have in common with her. 

He clears his throat, pulling her from her thoughts. “So, what brings you down here? Hiding from dear old dad?” 

“No,” she answers automatically, then pauses. “Maybe.” 

His lips quirk up. “With me? I mean, if you’re looking to tick him off, you’ve come to the right place, but…” 

Is she? It’s possible; she’s been doing a lot of things lately that her dad wouldn’t approve of. She doesn’t think it’s rebellion, exactly; she’s just so tired, constantly, of trying to fall in line with his impossible standards, of trying to prove to him that she’s worthy of being his daughter. 

For want of an actual answer, she deflects. “Do you want me to leave?” 

He laughs, rich and full, and shakes his head. “Let it never be said that Duke Crocker asked a beautiful woman to leave him alone,” he assures her, and now it’s her turn to roll her eyes. The showy flirting is anything but convincing, and she sees the defensiveness behind it. “I’m just trying to figure you out. And-” He snaps his fingers. “I have a theory.” 

“Oh, really?” Well, that came out a little softer than she meant for it to be. She swallows, and her voice is normal when she adds, “What is it?” 

He pulls his arm away, dropping back against the sand. Every inch of him radiates confidence. “It’s a comparison game. Your dad catches you hanging out with me, and maybe he’ll forget about any prom night escapades with a certain Nathan Wuornos. Am I right?” 

She cannot help but flinch at the reminder of Nathan, of his stricken expression as her father launched into his lecture. The names he called Nathan are seared into her memory, and she longs for a time machine, so she can go back and defend the poor boy who wanted nothing more than to show her the stars. (The rest was her idea, not that he was complaining. Not that she could find the words to tell her father that, as he shouted at Nathan.) 

“No,” she says flatly, and it is the truth. “Trust me, I’m really hoping my dad doesn’t catch us out here.” 

He goes still. Tilts his head up slightly, watching her. “Oh?” He asks, a little too carefully. Another test, she realizes. If she’s ashamed to be seen with him, this conversation is about to be over.

“Not a fan of being yelled at.” She tries for glib, but it comes out too tired. Too weary. If he’s going to make a thing of this, she’s not going to fight him. She gets enough fighting at home, and she isn’t sure she actually has any fight left in her.

Maybe he senses that, because he relaxes, sitting up with a shrug. “Yeah, I never was, either.” 

She feels herself relaxing in kind, tension she wasn’t even aware of lifting from her shoulders. Maybe they’ll be okay.

For a long time, they just sit there, soaking in the moonlight, watching the waves together. More than once, he reaches for the bottle beside him, but his hand never completes the journey. She half-contemplates assuring him that she doesn’t mind, but it’s oddly-oddly  _ sweet  _ of him, and that’s a novelty all its own: Duke Crocker being  _ sweet.  _

Finally, she speaks. “So, if I’m out here hiding from my dad, why are you here?” 

He hums. “Just enjoying the view.” He turns to her, offering a wink, but it seems almost performative. Like that’s what he knows she expects of him, and he’s playing along. 

Impulsively, she grins, giving him a pointed look. “It’s a nice view,” she teases, savoring his startled expression, “but I’m not buying it.” 

There’s something new in his eyes as he takes her in, maybe caught off-guard by her flirting. (She knows she is. What  _ is  _ she doing? This is  _ Duke Crocker,  _ for crying out loud. But it might be a little late for her to second-guess her life choices.) 

“Let’s just say, you’re not the only one who wants to get away for awhile.” 

“Fair enough.” She’s not going to push. “So, why here? Why the beach?”

Something almost nostalgic takes over his expression, and he looks back to the water, focus drifting. “It’s peaceful. Quiet.” He pauses. Seems to realize that could be taken more than one way. “Not a lot of yelling,” he clarifies. “And… I don’t know. I like it here.” 

“Me, too.” It’s one of the few places not tainted by memories of her father’s rage; he never liked the sand scratching against his skin, or the water clinging to him, so the beach belonged only to her and her mother. 

Now, she supposes, just her. 

She shivers, finally registering the chilly air around them, and he coughs. 

“Shouldn’t you have a coat?” He asks, ridiculously serious. And since when does he push for good life choices? Doesn’t he prefer the reckless and senseless route anyway? (Not that forgetting her sweater is much of an act of rebellion, but still, he doesn’t have room to talk.) 

She shrugs. “Forgot it.” 

Her attention drifts to the sand. It’s been awhile since she tried to build a sandcastle, but now her fingers itch, and she reaches out, pressing a small mound of sand together. It is far from beautiful, but it sticks, and her lips twitch. She can almost feel her mother’s hands covering hers, guiding her, as they shape the castle together. 

“Seriously, you look like you’re freezing,” he grumbles, and she side-eyes him. 

“I’m fine.” She starts another mound, shaping it beside the first. The sand is cool beneath her fingers, and she takes a moment to enjoy the way it squishes in her palms. “It’s not that cold.” 

Which, okay, may not be totally accurate, but in fairness,  _ that cold  _ is sort of an ambiguous statement anyway. How cold is  _ that cold?  _ It’s not too cold for her to work on the sandcastle, relaxing a little as her hands move along familiar patterns and motions. It’s like muscle memory, shaping turrets and digging moats. 

He groans, and she decides to ignore him; if he just wants to complain about her clothes, she can entertain herself. 

She barely has time to finish the thought before he moves, dropping his jacket over her shoulder. A protest forms and dies on her lips, because it’s  _ warm,  _ and maybe it really is  _ that cold  _ out here, because she may never leave this jacket again. She snuggles into it, smiling, and nods. 

“Thank you.” 

“Don’t mention it.” He grimaces. “Seriously.” 

“What, scared it’ll hurt your reputation?” She grins. “I thought giving girls jackets was just part of the whole act.” 

He shakes his head, giving her castle an absent poke. It isn’t enough to mess anything up, but she still watches him sharply. “Nah. Now, offering to snuggle? Definitely. But giving you my jacket, well… Not so much.” 

She rolls her eyes, grabbing a seashell and pressing it into the sand. It’s smooth and pale, and it makes a beautiful addition. “Don’t worry; your secret’s safe with me.” 

He doesn’t respond, and she decides that’s okay. Sets to work searching for more seashells to decorate her castle. After a moment, he starts looking as well, handing her any that catch his eye. They work in silence, letting the sound of the waves carry the conversation. Once, she catches his eyes, and there’s definitely a question in them, but she isn’t sure what it is, much less how to answer it. So she doesn’t try. Returns to her work, dropping his gaze. 

Finally, he sighs. “Much as I’m enjoying this,” he begins, and surprisingly, it lacks his usual drawl, “it’s getting late. You should be heading back soon. Unless you want the Rev to find out about us, of course.” He wiggles her eyebrows at her, and she scoffs, tossing a handful of sand on him. It lands harmlessly on his clothes, but he still draws a hand to his heart, feigning offence. 

“Us? What, our scandalous night of making sandcastles?” She shakes her head. “I’m not sure that counts as an us.” 

His face falls, but as almost immediately, he’s all smiles again. “Hey, I gave you my jacket,” he quips, and she instantly hates the newly guarded tone, “That’s practically going steady, right?” 

“But you didn’t give me your class ring,” she points out, offering a half-smile of her own. Hopes it’ll bring his guard down again, but to no avail. She shrugs off his jacket, the chill curling around her, and hands it back to him.

On impulse, she leans forward, pressing her lips to his cheek. It’s over in a second, just the slightest brush of contact, before she pulls away. His eyes are wide, startled, and he opens his mouth as if to make a quip, but it never comes. He says nothing, in fact, just stares at her in disbelief. 

“Goodnight, Duke,” she murmurs, rising to her feet. Not letting herself linger to see if he responds, she turns, making her way back up the beach. Back toward home. 

It’s only when she reaches the road that she realizes: he never started his drink. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!!!


End file.
